


RPG Launcher In A Shitstack

by x_x



Series: Johnny Gat, The Boss, And Shit [1]
Category: Saints Row
Genre: Saints Row 2 - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 11:29:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5965720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_x/pseuds/x_x
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Johnny Gat is a treasure. That's what the Boss believes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	RPG Launcher In A Shitstack

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after 'One Man's Junk' mission.

_"Your son shouldn't have fucked with my friends."_

  
  
  
What the fuck is up with you and exploding boats, though?  
  
  
It must say something that this shit-- a flash of retina overload, your ears ringing, flames singeing your clothes and hair, breath knocked out as you're thrown by the force, hitting cold salt water-- actually gets you nostalgic. Right down to the abrupt muffling of noise as the ocean swallows you whole.  
  
  
The contrast jars you; chill void of sea when it'd been fiery mayhem not but a moment beforehand. One hell for another.  
  
  
But you ain't dead yet.  
  
  
Go comatose via boat explosion once, shame on the fuck who set you up. Go comatose via boat explosion twice, well. It's not fucking happening twice.

  
As you go under, you end up thinking about Aisha. The real Aisha, who you'd gone back to retrieve before the feds got their thumbs out their asses and started sticking their noses all over the murder scene. All over the home she'd made for herself. All over her. Forensics would've gotten pictures, a gory joke of who Aisha had been when she was alive. You weren't having that. Aisha hated taking bad photos, you remember. You weren't about to let her deal with that shit in the afterlife.  
  
  
So you had the body cremated. Dispersed them at the beach at dusk. Now she's going to be remembered as fly and beautiful, just like when she'd died the first time. You had thought of it as a parting gift to her. And an apology. That much had been all you were able to do at the time. You couldn't think of a better place-- she's able to travel the world if she wants to, but it's still right in her hometown so that the Saints could still drop a dime.  
  
  
You can't help but wonder if this counts as a visit. If she feels at peace now, finds the sea a calm place of rest, if she's sighing and shaking her head at you for dragging your gang shit into her house once  _again_. You'd feel more sorry, if it didn't have such a 'last one, for old time's sake' bittersweet note to it. In a way, it feels like you're visiting to deliver the good news of the Ronin being wiped. Uninvited as always-- at that thought, you feel a bit sheepish.  
  
  
Look up. The entire surface of water is a blur of orange, angry flares as the entire fleet of ships get blown to absolute shit. It's like looking at a sun from space, the way you drift around submerged it's like there's zero gravity. Chunks of debris sinking past you-- yo, those could be like asteroids! You grin, giddy.  
  
  
Akuji's a goner, and this is the high from knowing that fucking bloodline is finished for good.  
  
  
_Hey, girl. I'll try to knock next time. ...And I'll bring Johnny, too._  
  
  
Johnny.  
  
  
You had no idea how long Johnny was gonna be out of commission, but even after he got back on his feet, you didn't know how to bring up Aisha, much less how you handled her corpse. You got the idea to let him know maybe after the funeral service with the dud body...fuckin' mess that turned out to be...and then....  
  
  
It's not exactly a subject you just bring up over dinner, in between sinking hot lead into skulls and slinging literal shit all over expensive neighborhoods.  
  
  
Maybe after blasting the main asshole responsible for his girl's death sky-high?  
  
  
Yeah. Maybe tonight.  
  


 

Johnny's waiting for you at street-level, Wong and his Translator in tow.  
  
  
It's all noise up here, back in the sharp, vivid, relentless world of the living. Akuji's funeral pyre is high-rising, and all the smoke and ashes are fucking with your ability to breathe-- as if you hadn't already swallowed several mouthfuls of Stilwater pollution in liquid form. The blaze bakes your exposed skin, but everything else retains the chill soaked in from the water. You're starting to _hurt_ , Boss.  
  
  
It took three tries to force enough strength into your limbs to pull yourself out of the water, and every last 'fuck you' to the universe to keep from collapsing. Each step from then on was your middle finger to the concept of limitations. But hey, if the sight of you walking with your back to the burning ships is just as hollywood as it feels, the effort's pretty damn worth looking like a badass. A nice perk to the standard rate of keeping alive.  
  
  
It's always been savagery out here in the great, wide world. You learned that early on in life, either get brutalized or be the brutalizer. And time and time again, you've paid your due in kind.  _He who fights monsters_ , and shit.  
  
  
Your hearing seems to be kind of fucked up from the explosion (wouldn't be the only thing), considering it takes you a while to process that Wong's speaking, that his Translator's rattling on. You catch enough to surmise it's a statement of thanks.  
  
  
Wong and his Translator bow. "Mr. Wong looks forward to future business endeavors with the Saints."  
  
  
"Same here," you say, sincere enough, but hoping that's the end of it. All the sword cuts are finally coming to life, stinging and itching from that dirty, dried sea water. It's pain layering onto pain as a scalded sensations starts crawling over various patches of your skin like a rash breaking out-- note: leaping through fire will result in _burns_. At this point, you're running on empty, dead on your feet.  
  
  
But you're leader of the Saints before you're dead on your feet, so suck it up, buttercup. There's business still to be had, even after Wong's formalities.  
  
  
Now that you're standing at the end of it all, punchdrunk and more than satisfied with how much carnage you got to wreak on the dumbfucks who opposed Saints' rule, all you want to know is how Johnny's doing. The fucks who killed Aisha, who put Johnny through hell-- they're all dead. This is his finale more than it is yours.  
  
  
Once Wong takes leave, you put full attention on your righthand man. You want to tell him it's over. You want to tell him you're sorry. Most of all, you want to hear him say he's going to be fine after this, that his nightmares will stop. And maybe now you won't catch him mumbling to himself anymore (to Aisha, actually, but that's even worse), or looking at his handguns and contemplating about god knows what (you know what). Maybe he'll stop looking so damn sad all the time.  
  
  
It doesn't have to be now, or immediately. But you want there to be a sign that the worst is over. You took a loss in Aisha too, and it can't be pushing luck to want Johnny back in full, could it?  
  
  
Where to even start.... There's Aisha's ashes, there's how you brought a gun to a sword fight and had Akuji screaming, and how the piece of shit had tried to intimidate you just before the ship blew. All of it seems like grand, golden news in your head, but when you try to bring any of it up, none of it seems significant if Johnny doesn't want to hear. If he just wants to go back to Purgatory and drink himself to sleep another night, waking up to his own shouts.  
  
  
Johnny hasn't spoken a word yet.  
  
  
But he's regarding you with an oddly subdued front. The glasses make him even less readable.  
  
  
 "No coma this time," you crack, wearily eyeing for his reaction.  
  
  
This asshole has the nerve to look good with a bruise over his left cheekbone, some red smudged off a split lip. Ruin has always suited him well. The firelight coming off the burning ships casts sunset colors across his features, emphasizing all the best angles of his bone structure. (Honestly? You need to get laid.)  
  
  
Johnny actually snorts, acquiring a little half-smile. "Nah, just the starring role in a katana bukkake."  
  
  
It might have been relief, but something squeezes your chest at the sound of genuine warmth in his voice. "Yeah, I was popular tonight. Everyone wanted a piece."  
  
  
That's probably the moment that the last ounce of adrenaline clears your system, because the ground suddenly feels like it's lurches, violently so. You try to regain your balance, but your legs only fold under you.  
  
  
"Boss--!"  
  
  
Hey. You don't hit pavement....  
  
  
Johnny's got you ( _when the hell--?_ ), his arm hooked around your ribcage and shifting your weight up so that he can get one of your arms hooked around his neck. Your head lolls against his neck before you can gain some control of your ragdoll limpness.  
  
  
"The fuck?" you mutter, words slightly slurring as if you were drunk. Huh. "My bad. I'm really okay."  
  
  
"You really ain't," Johnny responds, in a soft tone that sounds almost foreign coming out of his mouth. "Your feet not workin'?"  
  
  
"Uh." You look down and try to move your legs, but they sprawl uselessly like wet noodles over the sidewalk. "Shit. Gimme a second…."  
  
  
"I got you, man. It's cool."  
  
  
Johnny, this freight train motherfuck, demonstrates exactly how unhampered by your lack of coordination he actually is, walking you over to a car parked at the curb. You feel like you're floating over the concrete. The next thing you know, you're being set down into the passenger seat. Johnny rests his arm on the roof of the car, hovers beside you, nearly on top of you. Close. Warm. Safe. Alive. Without thinking, you reach out and grab his shirt-- goddamn, but your grip is so weak, it almost doesn't catch the fabric.  
  
  
_Will you be alright now?_ It should be that easy, but the words still won't come. As desperate as you are to ask, to get a sure answer, it still feels insensitive if Johnny isn't the one to bring it up first. Since what you're actually asking is,  _Can things go back to normal now?_ , when Johnny's normal was stolen the day Aisha's decapitated head hit kitchen tile.  
  
  
 "Boss?" He peers down at the hand on his shirt, questioning.  
  
  
You shake your head and let your fingers slip from his shirt. It's fine. It's all been handled. You need some shut-eye, and this piece of shit car feels comfier by the second. It's an honest wonder why no one locks their shit in this town, but you're not in the mood to question it tonight.Exhaustion's settled bone-deep at this point, and you really do feel like a ragdoll the way you just stay sprawled in the position Johnny left you in, unmoving.  
  
  
 "It's nothing," you mumble. "I'm gonna doze here."  
  
  
 "Yeah, feel free. I'll get us back to Purgatory."  
  
  
 "Nah, you go ahead without me. I don't feel like dealing with all the knuckleheads right now. I'll head in after my nap's done."  
  
  
Johnny frowns at you. "Where you wanna go then?"  
  
  
 "What?" You can't help but laugh, in surprise at first, but then also at the earnest look on Gat's face, like he'd deadass take you anywhere you wanted in that moment, and all you'd have to do is ask. You wrack your mind, only half-serious, but by the end of five minutes, you can't even come up with a joke location just to test him. "I don't give a shit so long as I can sleep. You could toss me back onto that burning ship and I'd be dreaming of tits, ass, and shoes before I even hit the deck."  
  
  
Johnny continues his acting weird streak in taking the next moment to contemplate. He even strokes at the stubble on his chin absentmindedly. He's been letting it grow out lately, possibly the only harmless one of all the bad habits he picked up since Aisha's death.  
  
  
Finally, with that little half-smile making a return, he says, "I got an idea."  
  
  
Before you can even think to ask, he shuts the passenger door. It's mere seconds before he's entering the driver's side, hotwiring the vehicle. You don't even think to grill him about his spur of inspiration, much less fight him on it. Even if all you have energy for is passing the fuck out, you're relieved that Johnny's decided to stick around.  
  
  
Just like he always has. Since the start, since back when Julius was running things, when he was  _your_ boss. The one constant in your life, the violent bloodthirsty maniac who can make someone piss themselves with just a look, and you feel a huge amount of pride and indebtedness to him for choosing to remain by you, even after years in a coma. In a world where people around you are either dying or ditching or blowing you the fuck up-- Johnny Gat is a treasure. An rpg launcher in a shitstack.  
  
  
_An rpg launcher in the passenger seat.  
  
  
You couldn't have asked for a better reason to believe in a God. Something that held more ammo would've been ideal, but this ain't bad, considering. You take it, loading the rounds as Pierce casts smoke off the wheels from peeling out of the neighborhood so fast. In the stretching distance, you can see the remaining Ronin jumping into their own rides, gearing for pursuit. More are pulling in off the main streets to back up their shithead buddies.  
  
  
A grin splits across your face. Let those motherfuckers to come. You want every excuse to send their limbs and fucking guts flayed across the streets of Stilwater. Send Akuji a fucking message. Because there is no way hell you're going to let anything get in your way of getting Johnny to the ER.  
  
  
"I don't think he's gonna make it." Pierce looks ready to vomit just glimpsing at all the blood through the rear-view.  
  
  
You spit a response like acid, voice ragged upon every syllable. "Are you a fucking doctor?"  
  
  
Like he needed to be. Anyone would've told you he was a dead man.  
  
  
You would've believed it too, had it been anyone but Johnny.  
  
  
Johnny Gat is a notorious badass. He's shrugged off bullets like they were marshmallows, utilizes violence as a form of affection, and his favorite colors are blood, gunmetal, and purple.  
  
  
No sword is harder than Johnny motherfucking Gat.  
  
  
That's what you believe_ d.  
  
  
And then, you visited him in the hospital and realized Johnny was just a man like anyone else. You also realized that Johnny could be very quiet. Nothing like the brazen, shotgun-toting, shittalking human disaster you'd come to know.  
  
  
You had figured, he's still recovering. That soon, he'd be back to his normal self. With enough time, enough dead cops, enough booze, strippers, money, street rep, Saints--  
  
  
You weren't wrong.  
  
  
He got through it. He's alive and by you today. But Johnny Gat still died that day, with Aisha. You learned that while watching what was left of him recover. Some wounds simply don't heal, Boss.  
  
  
"What?" Johnny asks.  
  
  
_Nmhuh?_  
  
  
You clear your throat, blinking back awake.  
  
  
Lights are flying by the windows in streaks. Johnny's weaving through traffic at high speed, sliding between cars and pushing his way into lanes like he's cruising in a sports vehicle and not some dated make with peeling paint. He handles the wheel with a fluidity you'll probably never touch in your lifetime. Even now, he's only got one hand on the steer while the other grinds the shift through the gearbox with what's probably a lot more pizzazz than necessary to just fucking drive. Fuckin' show-off.  
  
  
He glances over at you.  
  
  
"Said my name," Johnny says. "Thought you dozed off."  
  
  
"I did. Doze, I mean."  
  
  
A scoff. "Look, Boss, I'm flattered you're having wet dreams about me, but maybe we should keep our relationship professional."  
  
  
"Says the guy who bragged about his eight-inch cock when we first met," you retort easily, mirroring his smirk. It's like falling into a dance with this guy, you both know the other so well. "Talk about mixed signals."  
  
  
"What the fuck? Years later, and you still think about my cocksize? You better not be comin' onto me right now."  
  
  
"Yo, who's driving who to a fucking hotel suite with a rotating bed?" By now, you know where he's taking you, judging by the highway and what side of town you guys are headed. "But go ahead, keep playing coy."  
  
  
"Got me. Damn!" Johnny snickers, slapping the dash. "Ay, seriously though. It'll be better than camping out in this rust bucket. 'Sides, it's a good place to recoup. You brought me there after I got out of the hospital, so...."  
  
  
You snort at the initial memory: how quick everyone cleared out of the suite after you fired two rounds into the ceiling and told them to get the fuck out, and stay the fuck out until your say, but they better pick up all their shit up before they go. Then you'd went and picked Johnny up from the hospital. The following weeks hadn't been so fun. Johnny's mood had been so volatile-- lulling into an almost disturbing quiet and lack of activity, blowing up into foul unpredictable rages-- either extreme had been entirely unrecognizable to you. You spent the first week in the suite as well. Then, it was all you could stand to only check on him every now and again due to his fluctuating temperament.  
  
  
Some days had been better than others. But none felt better than the day he was finally able to walk back into Purgatory with you.  
  
  
Still. "That was 'cause you got impaled by goddamn _sword_ , Gat."  
  
  
"You're bleeding all over that fucking car seat! What the fuck is the difference?"  
  
  
Feeling silly, you shoot a suggestive grin at him. "Dry hump versus penetration."  
  
  
He raises an eyebrow, gaze darting over skittishly. He mutters, "Fuckin' a'. You _are_ comin' onto me."  
  
  
It hurts like a motherfucker, but you start cracking up, and the giggles don't stop, even when the car is parked and Johnny's dragging your beaten ass through the lobby, and into the hotel elevator.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
You've got back enough of your strength to stand on your own, so into the shower you go. You never outright tell Johnny to stay, and for a second you worried that he might take off after having seen you to the suite, but he makes his intention to obvious the way he kicks off his shoes and turns on the tv after digging the remote out from the couch cushions.  
  
  
It makes you wonder, with a helping of guilt, if all those times you'd thought it best to give him space were times he secretly wanted you to stay and dick around, but was too proud (not to mention, pissed off) to say so.  
  
  
The water stings like hell, and runs red going down the drain, but you don't find anything too serious. Nothing that some bandaids won't hold shut, anyway. At least you're able to wash yourself. Definitely not as bad as the fucking hole Johnny had.  
  
  
You'd helped cleaned it in the earlier days, before Johnny could bend enough to do it on his own. It was gnarly as shit, and smelled worse, what with Johnny not allowed to bathe properly while it was still in the early stages of healing. Used to be a bitch getting it done, but you'd do it again for him, no question. You were somewhat glad to have _something_ you could do for him at the time. There'd been shame in his eyes whenever you were leaned over his stomach, wiping away pus and blood, but you didn't see it as something to be ashamed of. Not that anything you could've said would've made a difference. Those days had passed by in almost total silence. And sometimes, he'd flat out tell you to fuck off once you were done. All the more reason you had wanted to sort this Ronin shit out fast as possible.  
  
  
Your own aftercare-- wrapping some gauze over your shoulder, and placing some bandaids in hard-to-reach spots-- is nothing in comparison to what Johnny'll be hurting from for the rest of his life.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"'Bout time you set that asshole Akuji straight," is what Johnny says when you come out of the bathroom. He tosses a bottle of sud your way.  
  
  
The rest of the six-pack is making water stains on the coffee table, and Johnny's barely dipped into one despite already reclining back into the sofa-- probably holding back on drinking to wait on you. Not any huge, dramatic gesture, but it gets you all fuzzy-feeling anyway.  
  
  
When you go the couch, you see the scrapbook-- the one you keep newspaper clippings in-- open on his lap. It's turned to the Ronin section, on the page with the article about Aisha's death. He stared at that a lot when he was cooped up in the suite recovering, too.  
  
  
"He had it coming," you respond warily, wringing open your beer, "the moment he thought about starting shit with the Saints."  
  
  
You chug the bottle greedily, some of it trickles over the side of your mouth. Goddamn, no matter the line of work, abeerafter a long day hits the fuckin' _spot_. You finish it, and toss the bottle across the room for housekeeping to take care of. At one point, there'd been such a huge pile of shards and bottles going that everyone started dropping them from the upper level of the suite. The floor's spotless right now, and for whatever reason, that makes it all the more satisfying to see the shards splinter out across the tiling. The shattering noise rings throughout the empty suite and brings a grin to your face. Just like that, it's already home. There's plenty more where that came from, too. Well, four at least.  
  
  
Johnny's gone all quiet, and you're immediately glad for the buzz that's already kicking in; sometimes, it ain't so bad being a lightweight.  
  
  
You hop over the back of the couch to plop next to him and immediately grab another beer to preoccupy yourself with opening. "'Sup?"  
  
  
"Nothing," Johnny answers, but he probably realizes it's bullshit the moment it's out. "Eh. Just thinking about Eesh. You know how it goes."  
  
  
You do. For better or for worse, you know exactly how much all of this has fucked with him. Drink your beer, take more of the edge off. Maybe it'll get him to follow suit. "Was today any better?"  
  
  
Johnny snickers, but it's a low sound, tinted dark and serrated with sarcasm. "I dunno, is she any less dead?"  
  
  
Your fingers go tight around your bottle. Maybe there's a reason after all that you used to just keep your mouth shut before, back when Julius ran things. Things were easier like that.  
  
  
There's a heavy sigh beside you. "Goddammit. Boss, no-- I didn't mean to--"  
  
  
 "It's cool."  
  
  
 "It's not fucking cool, jackass. I keep being a dick."  
  
  
 "You were always a dick."  
  
  
 "You know what I mean!" Johnny snaps. "You're-- fuck, I'm supposed to be your right hand. But all I've been doing lately is handing you my baggage and bullshit, when you have all this other bullshit on your plate already!"  
  
  
 "It's _cool_ , Gat." You turn around to face him, hoping he'll see that you're telling the truth. You're not sure if there's anything in the world you'd fault him for, nothing that you wouldn't deadass brag about anyway. "Shit happened. Real fucked up shit happened. You don't gotta be okay with that. I'll take the dick as long as you're...still...around...."  
  
  
...Good time to guzzle the rest of that beer. And probably go back to considering a revival of the silent act. At least when you're buzzin'. (Also, you really oughtta get laid soon.)  
  
  
Johnny takes what feels like a whole minute to stare at you before he snorts, shaking his head. "Still comin' onto me."  
  
  
The scrapbook snaps shut and when you look up, you catch the sight of Johnny tossing it over his shoulder to some far corner of the room before finally getting some brew down. He finishes his first like you had yours, no inhibition about portion, and only lowers it after the last drop beads out from a firm shake. He belches low, behind his hand, all polite about it-- something he's sort of been doing for a while now that you know had to be from Aisha's influence. But then he takes the bottle neck between his fingers and smiles at you as he raises it in the air, rocking it slowly in a mock throwing motion.  
  
  
Catching his lead, you grin back, mirroring the gesture with your empty. The both of you sync your throws so that your bottles sail into the far corner, clattering into bursts of glass and noise. Like fireworks, almost. Twin explosions of tinted shards and sharp edges; that's a metaphor about you and Johnny, if there ever was one. And yup, them's are drunk thoughts.  
  
  
It's as if you two never break sync, reaching for your next rounds, your bottles harmonizing carbonated hisses upon being opened, throwing your heads back, the break for breath after the swig, all of it done with eerily synchronized timing. Your face feels numb, cheeks feverish, and as you prop your feet up onto the coffee table, you're content to let time coast by. You could fall asleep like this.  
  
  
 "I cheered, you know."  
  
  
 "Hm?" You blink slowly at Johnny. Weird that you don't know what the fuck he's talking about, but you're smiling already like it's gonna be good. Because it's gonna. Because...it's Johnny.  
  
  
"I fuckin'…lost my shit." He snickers, but it's a different sound than before. It's giddy, and sheepish. He runs his hand over his face, skewing his glasses. "When I saw the ship blow, I started yelling like crazy. Jumping up and down. I'm surprised Wong didn't say nothing. Been a while since I felt that good."  
  
  
When he looks at you, he's got an expression like...like.... Well, you're not sure. But it makes your chest hurt in a weird,  _nice_ way. Like you could punch through a wall and slaughter a whole police squad, but not in a pissed off, "fuck this wall and unlucky group of pigs in particular" way. More like just to burn off the excess energy, because it just about feels like you can launch into the air and _fly_.  
  
  
You just nod, though. Sit back and let that soaring sensation fill your chest. "You know…fuckin' Akuji wanted me to take him on with swords."  
  
  
"And you did?" Johnny's eyebrows raise.  
  
  
"Hell, yeah! I don't back down from shit, man."  
  
  
Johnny grins, all teeth bared for the vicarious kill. "And you wiped the floor with him."  
  
  
"Hell, no! I ain't shit with swords, man."  
  
  
"What the fuck then?"  
  
  
"Fucker sent me sprawling! And I got mad. And fuck that 'honor' bullshit, for real. They step on our turf, fresh off the boat, and expect us to play by their rules? This land is _my_ land, bitch!"  
  
  
"So then?"  
  
  
"I shot his ass."  
  
  
Johnny belts out a full laugh in surprise. "You are _cold-blooded_. Also, I love you. Also, fuck yeah!"  
  
  
You don't say anything about how your heart stutters the moment he says 'love'. Nothing about how you can't remember the last time anyone's told you that before. He looks so goddamn happy. It's probably the alcohol setting in-- look how red his face has gotten-- and likely didn't even mean much to him, but you want to freeze this moment and keep it forever. Even if everything goes to shit, you can remember that at one point, Johnny was full of fuckin' delight and alcohol and told you he loved you. Someone loved you.  
  
  
Typically, you're...supposed to have some kind of follow-up response, right?  
  
  
But it's already a footnote as Johnny's already pushing more words at you. "I wish I'd seen it. That's the stuff of legends. The Saints are gonna eat this shit right the fuck up!"  
  
  
High on the praise, you recall your proudest moment of the fight: "I stabbed him in the back with a sword after."  
  
  
 "That was when he was screaming?"  
  
  
 "You hear?"  
  
  
"Phone was on speaker. Got stone hard just listening in on the action, you dirty-playing son of a bitch." Johnny takes another swig off his bottle, and reaches over to slap your knee a couple times, before drinking again. "See, this is why you're the Boss."  
  
  
 "Yeah, well, you ain't seen nothing yet." Something's missing. Feels like something else should be here. Someone. _The ashes...._  You look over to Johnny. "Hey, not to bring the mood down...but about Aisha...."  
  
  
'Not to bring the mood down', but you went and brought the mood down. Johnny goes quiet again, face goes solemn. "Yeah?"  
  
  
 "Her body. I got it cremated. I didn't want anything to happen to her ashes, so...I spread them in the ocean. I hope that does her justice. I know I should've asked, man-- I'm sorry-- but I didn't know how to bring it up, and I didn't want anything to happen to them what with all the shit going on...." You're rambling, Boss. Just stop.  
  
  
 "Good call." Johnny's rubbing his chin like he's thinking it over, but there's not a trace of malice on his face. "I think she would've liked that. _I_ like that."  
  
  
 "Yeah?"  
  
  
 "Yeah." That's when Johnny raises his bottle. "To Eesh."  
  
  
You follow his lead. "To Aisha."  
  
  
Quieter again, Johnny goes on. "She would've loved to hear that story." He looks at you again, and surprises you when he elaborates. "She really liked you, you know? She was always comparing me to you and shit. At one point, we were fighting and she said she'd just date you. And I told her to go right the fuck ahead. So she turned away like she was about to go do that, and I ran up and stopped her." He shakes his head. "I always folded for her."  
  
  
"She wouldn't have left you." You feel warm at finally being able to talk about Aisha. It's like keeping her with you. Keeping her alive. "She only said that shit cuz she knew you were whipped."  
  
  
"Hey!" Johnny's laughing again, but aside from his initial protest, he doesn't bother debunking you.  
  
  
You pause. You miss Aisha, but wonder if talking about her feels the same for Johnny, since he's clamped up about her like any mention of her was like a sword in the gut all over again. You hope it heals him instead. It's a whole lot more hoping than you prefer, but if there was a quota for how many dead cops could buy back Johnny's well-being, you'd level the entire city in a fucking witch hunt for feds. But it ain't that easy. All you got is words.  
  
  
So you say, "I never expected it, but ya'll were a pretty solid fit, huh?"  
  
  
Johnny's shoulders go tense. "Well. She was the best, y'know? She was…everything. Everything fucking amazing that you could ever damn find in someone. And me? Man, I know I go on and on about bein' the fuckin' shit on the streets, but…. I never deserved Aisha. I was always fucking up with her. She was always mad over something."  
  
  
"Maybe she wasn't mad." Open the last bottle. Clink it against the empty one in Johnny's hands for a trade. "Maybe she just thought it was only way she could talk to you. You're the one who's always mad, Gat."  
  
  
Johnny blinks for a stunned moment. Passes you his empty. "Never thought about it like that." He immediately drinks from the one you just gave him. And, after a beat, points an accusatory finger your way. "Where the hell was all this relationship counselor wisdom before? Back when the Saints just started? It could've saved me a shit ton of money and groveling!"  
  
  
Allow yourself a snigger. "You only ever asked about the shit anyone with common sense'd figure out. Takin' a girl like Aisha to Freckle Bitch's for dinner, out to the gun range on a date…. No fucking comment. Especially not from my silent ass back when."  
  
  
For a full minute, Johnny's glaring at you like he's about to throttle you. But then, the fire in his eyes subside. He looks back to his bottle. "Fuck off. You would've done the same."  
  
  
"Sure, but Lin--" You cut yourself off. What the fuck. Seriously, Boss, what the _fuck_.  
  
  
Johnny's back to staring at you, but you avoid his gaze like it'll keep the questions from coming. Drink heftily from your bottle just to keep occupied.  
  
  
Your gut's twisting like it did when Julius first told you about Lin's body being found. You remember hoping she'd made it out somehow, like you had. You remember her quick rambling, how panicked she must've been, how she kept telling you "we'll get out of this", kept focusing on you despite her being in deep shit right there with you.  
  
  
Remember how she pulled you close to her when you two met at the club, the warmth in your chest as you danced, as her breath brushed your ear. Remember that time at the tea house, one of the only times she'd ever smiled and she'd smiled at you then, had you buy her tea-- she'd always been ballsy as hell. Remember how she shot to kill you for real after you'd fucked up her car, driver's side. Remember the sound of her breathing as the water rose around you both. You want to vomit.  
  
  
It's a gutting realization of why Johnny doesn't ever bring Aisha up.  
  
  
Your beer's done, so you set it on the table and immediately you reach out to the table for another. Only to touch open air. You two already drank the others, remember? Means you gotta get up and go to the fridge if you want more.  
  
  
Goddammit.  
  
  
Cool glass nudges your forearm.  
  
  
Johnny's holding his beer to you. He doesn't say a word.  
  
  
It's odd, how you two just keep finding out how similar you both are, isn't it? Johnny Gat a treasure. What you have with him is a treasure. That's what you believe.  
  
  
Take the bottle, and drink.  
  
  
Meanwhile, Johnny takes it upon himself to finally turn the TV on, flipping through the channels with the disdain of someone whose preferences were too graphic for any of the available networks. He reaches over towards you, gestures for the beer, but only takes a quick sip before he holds it back to you.  
  
  
You both pass it back and forth between each other, until there's just an empty bottle and you both have to get up to retrieve the others to keep the buzz going.  
  
  
"You ever watch this 'Bobby and Amber' shit?" Johnny asks, looking up at the show playing that moment.  
  
  
You shrug. "Heard of it. Looks like dumb shit."  
  
  
"Looks like hella fuckin' dumb shit."  
  
  
That hella fucking dumb shit show is exactly what you two end up marathoning for the rest of that night, you know. You both fall asleep together on the couch, kicking at each other for extra leg room.


End file.
